


in your arms i am a wild creature

by singmyheart (orphan_account)



Series: shed my skin [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Dom/sub, Explicit Consent, F/M, Femdom, Gen, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, Oops, Oral Sex, dom!Natasha, i appear to have forgotten clint, next time i guess, sub!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:43:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/singmyheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels warm all over, suddenly, and kind of like he wants to hug her, but she’d probably break his arm and he doesn’t really want to deal with that right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in your arms i am a wild creature

**Author's Note:**

> this took forever and i'm kind of just glad it features one full sentence after another so please don't throw things at me and i have no idea why it's 4k words.
> 
> fun fact: i have this document saved as "help how do smut". 
> 
> the usual thanks to silverlace, without whom my fic would not be what it is, and also without whom i would have no one with whom to discuss sex gyms and electric bird baths. 
> 
> this is a sequel to "she is a warrior tattoo" but can be read as a standalone. title from "Broom People" by the Mountain Goats.

Steve really shouldn’t be surprised when it finally happens. Statistically speaking, it’s amazing they haven’t lost a civilian on a mission before now. He doesn’t know how it happened, apparently none of them are sure; looks like just a case of wrong place, wrong time. Steve has to tell her parents; sometimes he really hates his job.

The Avengers are quiet on the way home. There’s nothing to say.

He’s reminded with uncomfortable clarity of that first time, their first official mission as Avengers; looks to Tony, wonders if he remembers too. There’s none of that fire in Tony’s eyes now, they’re far away like they get sometimes when he thinks no one is looking.

_“Is this the first time you’ve lost a soldier?”_

_“We are **not** soldiers.”_

* * *

 

Pepper, Bruce and Dr. Foster are waiting for them when they get back. All of their eyes are damp.

Jane disappears into Thor’s arms the second he sees her, completely dwarfed by his bulk; it would almost be funny if Steve couldn’t just make out their murmured reassurances and words of comfort to each other.

He turns away in time to see Tony cross the room to Bruce and Pepper; they don’t say anything, but just enfold him between them; Bruce pressed to his back and Pepper’s arms thrown around his neck. Tony’s filthy and he’s got what looks like a dislocated shoulder, he’s moving gingerly.

Not for the first time, Steve wonders if he’d feel better having someone to come home to on days like this. He can’t imagine having someone this worried about him, hanging off the news coverage, sick with relief to have him back in one piece. It hurts enough to watch, always feels like he’s intruding.

Clint and Natasha are at SHIELD, debriefing; he’ll catch up with them later. He excuses himself on the grounds that he needs a shower and a beer.

He stays in the shower long enough that Jarvis has to gently prod him to get out, and the mirror is completely opaque with steam when he does. He towels off with wholly unnecessary vigor, knots it around his waist and really should be less surprised to see Natasha sitting on his bed when he enters the room. Tony needs to update his security again.

“Barton said you were, quote, ‘being weird’,” she says.

“And how would he know that, exactly?” Steve sighs.

“Thor told him.”

Thor’s much more observant that any of them really give him credit for, except maybe Bruce. He makes a mental note to apologize, later. “News travels fast around here, huh?”

“That’s hardly surprising. Even if Stark wasn’t the biggest gossip on the planet, you do, technically speaking, live in a commune.”

Steve is, frankly, too goddamn tired to care that he’s in a towel, and collapses on the bed next to her, stares at the ceiling while he speaks. “Not to be blunt or anything, Tasha, but I was kind of planning on doing my damnedest to get soused and forget that today happened in relative peace.”

Her lip quirks. “No, I suppose if you were being blunt you’d have told me to fuck off.” Steve presses the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see spots. “I’ll leave you be if that’s what you want; I just thought you might want to talk.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t want to _talk,_ Natasha,” he spits before he can help himself. It’s not fair, he knows. There’s a pause. He sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair and cranes his neck to look up at her. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she replies, and just like that he knows it is. She doesn’t mess around, Natasha, none of this saying-one-thing-and-meaning-another business. “I have to go make sure Barton sleeps. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes, Mom.” He rolls his eyes, tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice. She kisses his cheek and leaves, silent on her feet.

 

 

* * *

 

Later, Steve will be unable to explain to anyone how he spends the following week or two. It’s all a haze, he eats and sleeps and works out as usual, but he’s going through the motions, goes through their faces over and over in his mind – the dead girl, her parents, who’d known something was wrong the second they found Captain America on their doorstep; Thor, Tony, Bruce, Jane, Pepper.

“Steve?”

Natasha again. He groans in response, groans louder when she flicks the light on, pulls his blankets over his head and closes his eyes. He’s being petulant, but it’s the middle of the night (not that he was sleeping, anyway) and he’s not in the mood for a heart-to-heart, or whatever Natasha’s version of that is.

He feels the mattress dip where she sits, but silently refuses to come out. She doesn’t waste any time. “This happens, okay? It’s in the job description and it’s not your fault.”

He snorts, disbelieving, can tell he’s only falling back on anger to try and stop feeling like he wants to crawl out of his skin, knows it’s not fair to put his walls back up; she doesn’t deserve it but he can’t help himself. It’s not worth trying to play dumb, of course she’s noticed how he’s been acting lately. He pushes the duvet down, sighs. “Well, it’s someone’s fault, isn’t it?” he snaps. “This doesn’t _just happen,_ innocent people just up and – getting in the way and, just – normal people don’t do this. This isn’t… I’m _tired_ , Tasha.”

“I know,” she murmurs, reaches over to cup his jaw, and this time he does close his eyes, sighs and leans into her touch.

“I’m just…” He can’t find the words. “So tired of it.”

“I know,” she repeats, softer than he’s ever known her to be, and he knows she means it.

“I love this, I love the team and what we do, it’s an honor and a privilege and all that,” he hastens to clarify, “but I feel…” He trails off; he’s frustrated, the words are there, but he can’t make them come out.

“Would you like to know what I think?” she asks, decisively, like she’s going to tell him regardless. He nods anyway, gestures for her to go on, sits up, braces himself. “I think you’ve been trying to carry the world on your shoulders for too long. I understand that, believe me, but it doesn’t have to stay that way. Not for you, not now.”

“How do you mean?” He’s treading carefully here. Natasha chuckles, brushes a hand across the crinkle in his brow. She’s somehow moved into his space without him noticing, leaned in just a little; her posture is open and relaxed and her hand is warm on his skin.

She’s as unruffled as she ever is, she’s got that expression on that most people mistake for coldness, but he knows her better. It’s just calm, together. He wonders absently if she can see the wheels turning in his brain, feels like she’s dissecting him. “I mean, in the simplest terms, relax.” She hitches one shoulder a little, casual. “Let someone in, Steve. I don’t mean just me, everyone else, too. You’ve still got your defenses up, after all this time. I know what that sounds like, coming from me, but I mean it.” She pauses for a second, takes a beat to let him process. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“I think so,” he says, slowly.

“I think it just comes down to letting yourself be taken care of. I know, it’s not easy, but maybe you just need to let somebody look after you. Make sense?”

This gives him pause; he can’t say the idea had ever really occurred to him before. “I’m not really – well, dependent, I guess, as a rule,” he ventures. _Not anymore,_ he doesn’t say, tries not to think of Bucky, of all those years his stubborn streak and various illnesses made him dependent, made him into someone who had to be taken care of. But this is different, because he has a choice now and she’s asking him to make it for his own sake.

“And I don’t think you should be, I just mean you could stand to take it easy. You don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time.” She sketches air quotes around the word and Steve is momentarily distracted by her hands, pale and unadorned, graceful, given all they’ve done. “Be Captain America, our fearless leader, on the battlefield, but not here. You don’t need to be that person to have a beer with Barton and me on a Saturday night. Okay?”

Steve nods; he’s starting to see what she means even if he doesn’t quite know how to proceed. So he asks her. “What do you think I should do?”

“I’ve got some ideas,” she replies with the barest hint of a smile, her hand is firmly on the back of his neck now; he thinks of that night on the couch and tries not to let it show on his face. She leans in a little closer, gives him plenty of time to back away. He doesn’t think he wants to.

“I wasn’t angling for this, just so we’re clear,” he starts to say, but she cuts him off with an exasperated, “I _know,_ ” and a real smile before she pulls him down to kiss her.

He tries not to think _oh god oh god I haven’t done this in seventy years what do I do with my hands oh god this is good why don’t we do this all the time_ and focuses instead on the soft heat of her mouth, the swipe of her tongue over his lip, the sweet edge of surprise when she takes it between her teeth. He’s immediately self-conscious about the groan that pulls from his throat, but she reads his mind, stops kissing him long enough to murmur, “Don’t even,” against his mouth.

For a while all they do is kiss like that, deeply and lavishly like he never has in his life. He still doesn’t know what he should do with his hands, but she has no such reservations, wrapping hers firmly around the back of his neck, so he figures it’s safe to rest his on her waist. His brain nearly short circuits when she settles herself into his lap, just straddles his waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and nudges him backward with a hand on his chest until he’s flat on his back. She reaches for the hem of her tank top, making him very aware that he’s naked but for a pair of sweats, and must mistake something in his expression for hesitance, because she stops, asks, “This okay?”

“Yeah, I… yeah. It’s fine, it’s good. I’ve just uh, never done this before…”

“Which part?” she queries, clarifying when she catches his confused expression. “I mean, the sex part, or the letting-someone-else-take-the-reins-during-sex part?”

He will not blush, he will _not._ “Both.” He swallows.

She nods, considering. “I apologize, I suppose I should have asked. Okay. Would you like to?”

He should have figured she’d be so straightforward with him; beyond the slight haze of being really, really turned on, he appreciates it. “Yeah.” It’s the least he can do to be the same in return, even if his voice cracks.

“Right, okay.” Natasha doesn’t move, just looks down at him and continues, tone as casual as if they’re discussing the weather. “Safe words; are you familiar with the concept?”

“No, but I assume that’s what it sounds like.”

“Right. Basically, what I’m asking is for you to cede a certain amount of control to me. Right now, we’ll take it slow, I’ll check with you as to what’s okay, and if I do something that isn’t, you’ll have to let me know. Thus, the safe word. With me so far?”

“Yeah, okay.” He exhales, relaxes a little, feeling better with some idea of what he’s getting himself into. “So what should ours be?”

“How’s ‘crown’?” she suggests, something a little knowing in her smile. He decides not to ask.

“’Crown’ it is. Anything else?” Feeling a little bolder now, he spreads his hands over her hips, noticing how his thumbs almost meet in the middle, then skims them along her waistband.

“No bridge we can’t cross when we get there,” she replies, and then rolls her hips against his, slow and indulgent; it makes his breath catch. “And I intend to take my time.”

Before Steve’s head can explode at that thought, she’s leaning down with one hand on his chest; he cranes up to kiss her again, but she stills him with just a little pressure. He’s confused for a split second before realizing what she must be waiting for, and it makes his stomach drop in the best way. He steels himself to look her in the eye. “May I kiss you?”

She nods, runs her nails down his chest just lightly enough to raise goosebumps. “Just wanted to hear you say it…”

He pushes up on his elbows to take the kiss he’s earned; he wants badly to touch her, but she nudges his wrist back when he tries. When she breaks the kiss he shows her his palms in supplication – _have it your way._ His head is spinning already ( _how is this even happening I don’t understand my life_ he thinks distantly) but the relief is short-lived because she’s moving again, that same torturously slow roll of her hips. And then she leans down, bites at his earlobe, and starts talking – telling him how good he looks, how well she’ll treat him, promises to teach him, show him – and it should be ridiculous, bad porno dialogue, but it’s going straight to his cock. He feels completely overwhelmed in the most incredible way, muscles taut, every nerve thrumming, and she’s barely touched him. He’s blushing, he knows, skin crawling with heat, oversensitized.

All at once she climbs off of him and he doesn’t have time to miss her warm weight before she’s tugging him upright by both hands, and then pulls at his sweats. “Off,” she requests with that would sound like sweetness, coming from anyone else. He knows her better.

So he stands, unties the drawstring and lets them drop, steps out, and then he’s naked. In front of a woman. The fact that she’s still fully dressed makes him feel very, very exposed. He suspects, with what small part of his brain can still form coherent thoughts, that she likes it this way.

She sweeps a long, appreciative look over him from head to toe, and then, soft, - “On your knees.” So Steve sinks to kneeling on the floor of his bedroom, in front of her, and looks her in the eye while he does it. This puts him at eye level with her stomach, and again he has to resist the urge to touch, just lift up the hem of her top and press his mouth to it. He looks askance at her, and she gestures for him to continue, wordlessly. He reaches to hook his fingers in the waistband of her jeans. “May I?” She nods. He frees the buttons and eases them down her thighs with reverent slowness, and she doesn’t stop him when he kisses her scars and the places where the seams have left little red marks. She steps out of the jeans, strips off her tank top, and takes a seat on the foot of the bed in front of him, her feet on either side of his knees. He’s so hard it almost hurts.

Without her asking, he takes one of her ankles in his hand – he can almost wrap his fingers all the way around it – and presses a kiss to the arch of her foot, her ankle bone, the side of her calf. When he looks at her she’s leaned back on her elbows, watching him through hooded eyes. Encouraged, he keeps going until his nose is brushing the edge of her underwear (basic black cotton with a little bow on either side; he likes that she hasn’t dressed up for his benefit, because this is clearly premeditated), completely entranced by the way her legs fall open just a little further as he works his way up. Just to satisfy his own curiosity, he bites the inside of her thigh, gently, and she hums low in her throat. “Can I take this off?” he asks; it feels startlingly loud in the still of the room. She nods again, lifts her hips to ease his way.

Once he’s pulled her panties down her legs and off, left them in a pile with her jeans, he takes a moment to appreciate the view – she’s all soft curves and corded muscle; her skin is creamy pale and rent with long, faded white scars. She sits up a little, lifts her leg to rest it on his shoulder, tucks a curl behind her ear. “Will you – “ He stops, swallows. “I could use a little guidance, here.”

Natasha smiles. “Give me your hand.” He does and she guides him to her, easy, unhurried. She’s wet, slick and warm, almost hot when he pushes a finger into her at the same slow, languid pace they’ve been going. She sighs. The light, clean scent of her is making his head swim; he feels almost drunk with it. She angles his palm upward, to another spot that pulls a soft noise out of her. “Feel that, right there? Remember that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies unthinkingly, and she laughs, a real, contented laugh. It turns into a groan when he adds another finger to the first, hits the spot again, drops a kiss on her stomach.

“That’s it, just like that,” she murmurs. He still doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but she seems to enjoy it in any case. After a moment or two he gets into a rhythm, feels confident enough to lean down and replace his hand with his tongue. It makes her back arch off the bed and she gasps; immediately he wants to make her do it again, find what she likes.

He’s rock-hard and leaking onto his thigh, the temptation to touch himself overwhelming. He’s just about to, actually, wrap a hand around his cock just to get a little relief, but she must be able to read his mind, says, “Don’t. Not yet.”

Steve shows her his free hand to prove he’ll behave, “mm-hm”s against her clit in affirmation and can’t help feeling a little smug at the completely obscene noise that produces, even though he’s pretty sure he’s going to _die._

It doesn’t take much longer, a few firm, steady strokes before she comes, hand tight in his hair and shaking, mouth open, eyes closed. He fucks her through it, surprised he doesn’t come himself right then just from the sight of her.

“Mmmm, come here,” she hums, lazily, blinks her eyes open and sits up, waits for him to shuffle forward a little and then kisses him, chases the taste of herself from his mouth. He finds that he likes the thought of it, is impossibly even more turned on by the fact that she likes it.

When she reaches down and takes his cock in her hand he’s almost not expecting it, just like that, still on his knees in front of her. She strokes him slow, long, sweet pulls and the slightest brush of her thumb over the head, and he’s right there, right where he wants to be.

He asks her for it without being prompted, muffles his groans in her side, hands sinking into the carpet, her thighs, desperate for something to grip. “Tasha… god, Tasha, please…” For one agonizing moment he thinks she’s really going to make him beg, but then he’s there, over the edge and shuddering with it, comes over her hand and his stomach, murmuring praise and pleas and curses all the while.

When he comes back to earth she’s watching him, not expectantly, just waiting. “Thank you,” tumbles out of his mouth before he can think about it.

She doesn’t question it, just says, “You’re welcome,” and then proceeds to slide her fingers into her mouth and lick her hand clean like it’s the most normal thing in the world and god she is going to be the death of him. “You okay? Here…” She tugs him up onto the bed next to her, arranges them so they’re lying down, face to face. “At ease, soldier.”

He smiles, weakly. He doesn’t understand his life, but he’s entirely sure he wants to do that again. “That was… I don’t even know,” he confesses.

“Is that a good ‘I don’t even know’ or a bad one?”

“Good, definitely good,” he clarifies hastily, and she laughs. “Wait, hold on, that wasn’t – “

“What, comfort sex? A pity fuck? No,” she assures him, dry as dust, “I wasn’t trying to heal your man pain with my vagina. I meant what I said, about taking care of you.”

He feels warm all over, suddenly, and kind of like he wants to hug her, but she’d probably break his arm and he doesn’t really want to deal with that right now. He must be easy to read, or something, because whatever’s on his face makes her smile. “I haven’t had someone do that – hell, haven’t had someone who wanted to do that – in quite a while,” he admits.

“I thought not. Come here,” she says, wrestles them both back under the duvet and curls up in the crook of his arm, head on his shoulder. It occurs to him how small she really is. He hadn’t figured her for a cuddler, but apparently today is one for surprises.

He lets his eyes slip shut, already halfway to sleep in the span of a few seconds when he whispers into her hair, “I like your underwear.”

He feels her laugh against his chest and she shifts to bite his ear. “Thanks.” After a while they’re breathing in rhythm, the only sound in the room. When Steve falls asleep he doesn’t dream, and when he wakes up there’s a fresh cup of coffee on his nightstand, holding down a scrap of paper with an hourglass scrawled on it in red ink.

 

 

 

 


End file.
